“Mr. Pat’s gang can, though, maybe,” she retorted.
The men were sweating. Steam rose from their bended forms. Old Jenny and the truck horse were sweating, pushed at top speed back and forth. The clang of the rails and the whang of the sledges never faltered. End o’ track leaped westward, toward the distant graders. The dumps were melting and disappearing.
“Look out! Here comes the train!”
At exactly the right moment old 119, with Terry’s father and Fireman Bill Sweeny gazing rearward from throttle and bell, pushed the construction-train on up over the new track as far as it could. Its extra large crew worked madly to throw the iron overboard into more dumps, nearer at hand.
Out puffed the train, gathering speed, for another load. Right on its heels Jimmie Muldoon tore with his truck, to the farthest dump again. There was no delay.
What with the constant pressing forward, all eyes upon the rails as they were laid, it was hard to keep posted.
“How far’ve we gone now? How far’ve we gone now?” appealed George, foolishly.
“How do I know? Gee whiz!” Terry rebuked. “I forget where we started from. You ought to count the truck-loads. It takes about ten to a mile, doesn’t it?”
“Yes; but I’ve lost count,” George complained.
“So’ve I,” confessed Terry. “Anyway, we’re sure traveling. Granger’s getting out of sight.”